


it takes a village (to put me back together again)

by nicole_writes



Series: after it's over, all we have is what's left and what we make for ourselves [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Black Eagles Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Mentioned Bernadetta von Varley, Mentioned Blue Lions Students (Fire Emblem), Mentioned Sylvain Jose Gautier, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Rebuilding your territory takes time and energy, Rebuilding yourself takes even more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26275954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicole_writes/pseuds/nicole_writes
Summary: There's work to be done in Galatea.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault & Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: after it's over, all we have is what's left and what we make for ourselves [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1909096
Comments: 14
Kudos: 27





	it takes a village (to put me back together again)

**Author's Note:**

> So I thought I was done with that fic yesterday. Turns out I wasn't. This is a sequel fic that will make a whole lot more sense if you read the first part~

Coming home is only the first step in a very long road to rebuilding. Ingrid has to regain the trust of her people, the people she left and abandoned to draw arms against them. Thankfully, the people of Galatea are desperate and tired and when she promises to put the effort they need in, it’s all she needs to say.

With the stipend she gets from Edelgard as thanks for her service, Ingrid has enough to hire a few people from the village who are desperate enough to help her clean up the manor. They start with all the old and damaged furnishings, removing everything from the house that Ingrid won’t need or use.

Almost all the furniture from the bedrooms goes and Ingrid lets her people take what they want and need. The furnishings on the main floor are thinned out until just the necessities and a few of the more sentimental pieces remain. A carpenter from the town teaches her how to treat wood and repair the few pieces that are broken but not beyond saving. 

He tells her, as they work, that she’s an unusual woman. Ingrid gives him a thin smile and nearly slices her hand. The carpenter laughs and means he doesn’t mean it in a bad way. Apparently, she’s far more hands-on than any noble that he has ever seen, but that it’s not surprising considering who raised her. 

Overall, as the work is done on the house, Ingrid has people tell her stories about her family. Apparently her mother is remembered fondly as a guiding light in the Galatea household and across their lands. Her father is remembered as strict, but fair and generous with what he could give during the hardships faced by her lands. 

Her brothers were soldiers, but that’s really all Ingrid remembers them to have been anyways. 

Once Ingrid is satisfied with the furnishings of the manor, she tears out all the drapes and takes the rugs out and gives the fabric and material to the tailors and the people of the town to use for their own purposes. She thinks she sees her mother’s old drapes get turned into a series of beautiful sundresses for a few of the village girls. 

The next step is the windows. They replace what glass panes are broken and reseal the frames in place. She gets the locks replaced and the keys recut and even decides to repaint the outside, changing it from the plain brown it has always been to a verdant green colour which, as she tells the people who help her, will be the colour of their gardens come spring. 

Most of them don’t believe her, but Ingrid has plans. 

Six months after the war ended, Ingrid stands back on the hill and stares at her home. It is no longer a home for empty memories and bad thoughts, but rather the home of a lonely young woman, but at least it feels like home again. 

* * *

She volunteers her time in the fields, breaking soil and planting seeds and sweating right alongside her people. They try new seeds and new planting arrangements and Ingrid works so much she nearly collapses under the hot sun one afternoon. Her people seem unsure what to do with the fact that Ingrid is so willing to be beside them and to walk amongst them for these efforts. 

She knows that she has a reputation to repair after abandoning the Kingdom and siding with the Empire, but her people seem ready enough to accept her over a puppet installed by Edelgard. Ingrid will take what she can get and work to get the rest. 

She starts a literacy program in the village too and donates all the books she had once considered burning to the children, encouraging both boys and girls to learn to read and write. The school in the city booms and one of the teachers hugs her with tears in her eyes one day. Ingrid promises to build a bigger school as soon as they can. 

* * *

By the middle of the summer, the new crops are growing with a ferocity Ingrid cannot ever remember from her home in Galatea. The plants grow, die, and fertilize the soil creating better conditions for the plants that will come in the future. 

Ingrid holds a handful of soil in her fingers and smiles to herself as she notes the moistness of it and that despite the rockiness of it, the fact that it appears to be working. It will take more work, obviously, but it is a start and that is more than can be said for the last ten years on this land. The people are more than pleased with the beginning of progress. 

* * *

In the fall, Ingrid gathers every able-bodied person willing to help and they start working on the school. They leave the old school standing where it was and they parcel out a section of unredeemable farmland to build the new school. 

Ingrid funds the whole project with the money that she gets from Edelgard: a new foundation, solid walls to protect against the Faerghus winter, classrooms with space for growth and even its own library. She fills the library with books from her room and her father’s office. By the time that the late autumn chills of Wyvern Moon start to set in, the school is operational. 

In Red Wolf Moon, she opens the manor for a huge feast to celebrate the rekindling of the Galatea lands and their rebirth into a new life. The house is so busy that the party spills onto the hill around the house and they have a bonfire and sing the traditional celebratory songs of Faerghus. 

Ingrid drinks wine from the Gaspard region and sees the shadows of her friends dancing around the edges of the bonfire. Ashe is there in the curls of grey smoke and Annette is in the flickering tips of the flames. Mercedes is there in the laughter and the singing. Dedue is in the food that her people bring to share. Felix is in the shadows, constant and unwavering, that follow everyone. Dimitri is in the spirit that flows so freely between people and in the way that her people treat her like a leader, not an outsider. 

Sylvain stays close to her chest. He’s the warmth from the sweaters and coats she is given as thanks for her work. He’s the brightest part of the fire that makes you warm to the core when you approach it and dazzles your eyes when you look at it. He’s also in the cold chill that settles in her bones when her people clear out of the manor and return to their homes and Ingrid is left standing at the top of the hill, alone. 

* * *

She has moved the portraits of her family from the entrance hall. They’re all hanging in the room that used to be her mother’s study now, dusted and restored to the best of a local artisan’s ability. Some nights, she lights a candle in the study and stares through the yellow glow at the face of her father. 

“Would you be proud of me?” she says to the silence of the room. 

He had always wanted her to lead, to elevate herself to the Head of the House with her Crest and her passion, but Ingrid had wanted to follow. She had wanted so desperately to be a knight and to hold a weapon and face down enemies for the rest of her life. 

Now, she sits in the study alone and when she looks at her hands, the callouses she had earned from years of lance work and swordplay have been replaced by small scars from saws and files and hoes and sickles from working amongst her people. Her dedication to the throne has been replaced by her dedication to her people. 

She no longer wants to follow. She’s tired of following. She’s tired of leading too, but at least when she leads her there is no need for fighting. 

Lu ín is on display in her bedroom. She mounted it there herself, hanging on the wall above her bed, covering up the scratches and marks she left in the wall as a child. She’s been here for months now, but she still has not moved to the master bedroom of the manor. 

She keeps it clean and dusted, but she does not live in it. It is not her space. She has come to accept that. 

* * *

Some nights, she is so bone-tired and physically exhausted that sleep is easy. Other times, she stays up all night watching the wax of a candle burn until there is nothing left. 

It’s very different from the nights years ago where she would burn the midnight oil with Ashe and Annette studying for tests or talking with Mercedes or training with Felix and Dimitri or just lying with Sylvain where there had been no words that needed to be said. 

* * *

Ingrid’s so used to remembering all the friends that died in the war that sometimes she forgets that she has friends who have survived.

Hers and Edelgard’s relationship has never been one of friendship. It has always been a contentious, tenuous partnership because Ingrid did not join the Black Eagles originally because of Edelgard. She had joined because of the professor. It was only after the line was drawn that she had made her choice to side with the Empire. 

She has always hated the Crest system and the shallowness of nobility. Edelgard had promised to tear it all down, so Ingrid had made her choice: the Empire and its new future over the Kingdom and its cruel, unfortunate status quo. 

She had never been particularly close with too many of the other Black Eagles either, but Dorothea and Bernadetta are the exceptions to that rule. So, it’s only natural that it is Dorothea who arrives in Galatea in the Ethereal Moon with no warning, no letter, and no plans to return home. 

Ingrid is taken aback by her friend’s sudden appearance, but Dorothea just offers her a sunny smile and prompts Ingrid to let her inside as she’s not as accustomed to the cold of northern winter as Ingrid is. Ingrid shuffles back, opening the door wider, and then Dorothea is breezing into her home. 

Her friend takes in the simple furnishings of the house and the fact that so much of it looks refurbished or built by hand by locals, not professional artisans like the furniture found in many noble homes. Dorothea puts a hand on her hip and raises an eyebrow at Ingrid. 

“This is practical,” she notes, waving a hand to Ingrid’s empty mantles and shelves. 

Ingrid has hardly thought to replace the unimportant material objects in her home since she’s been here. She has been too focused on making the manor livable and on working the fields and getting her people back on their feet. 

“I can make you a room up if you give me a few minutes,” Ingrid says, ignoring the questions hiding behind Dorothea’s casual remark. 

The songstress doesn’t say anything to stop her, but she does trail after Ingrid curiously as Ingrid heads upstairs, going to one of the few guest rooms in the manor. She pulls the sheets for the bed out of a wooden trunk that she had sanded and carved herself and starts making the bed in the room. She steps back when she’s done, and straightens out her hair, feeling almost self-conscious. 

Dorothea approaches her and tucks her hair behind her ear, curling her finger around a lock of blonde hair as she does it. “It’s getting long again,” she says quietly. 

Ingrid steps back, smoothing out her hair and forcing a small smile. “I hadn’t noticed,” she admitted. “It hasn’t exactly been my first priority.”

Dorothea laughs. “I know. You know, we’ve been hearing all about the work you’ve been doing here. Ferdie was completely scandalized that you’ve been in the fields yourself over tea one day. It was quite funny. And, I saw your school on the way up here. I’m sure that Edie and Byleth would be more than happy to donate some books from the monastery to help you grow even more,” she offers brightly. 

Ingrid steps back, feeling unsteady. She has never been bad at navigating social situations, but in a room, alone, with a friend she has not seen in almost a year, she feels lost and helpless and blind. 

“Galatea is doing just fine,” she says. She folds her arm to give herself a sense of security. “What are you even doing here, Dorothea?”

Dorothea’s expression melts into something more sympathetic. “I was worried about you. We haven’t seen you in Enbarr since the war ended and I know you turned down Hubie’s invitation to chase down the last of those dark mages with us all in the summer.”

“So you just decided to show up here?”

Dorothea steps towards her and Ingrid steps back reflexively. Dorothea doesn’t shy away and doubles down, closing the distance between them. 

“I don’t think you would have let me come if I had asked nicely,” she explains. “I know you, Ingrid, and I know what you must be feeling. All the work you’ve been putting in here, it’s a nice distraction, but what are you going to do when the work is done?”

“There will always be work to do, Dorothea. Galatea has never been prosperous. I want to make it flourish,” Ingrid disagrees. “I’ll be busy.”

“Winter is the hardest season, you know. The way I see it, you have two options here: you’ll work yourself into the ground trying to resurrect your dead lands and rejuvenate your people or you’ll fade into nothing when you get idle hands because the voices in your head won’t stop screaming,” Dorothea explains. 

“They don’t scream,” Ingrid says quietly. “Most days I’m lucky if they’re there at all.”

Dorothea steps closer, reaching for Ingrid’s hands. Ingrid doesn’t stop her and Dorothea’s fingers, elegant and scarred from years of magic use, wind around Ingrid’s. Ingrid takes a shaky breath and closes her eyes. 

“At first, I saw them everywhere. Now, I’m lucky to remember them.”

“It’s worse when it’s quiet, isn’t it?” Dorothea asks, but it’s not really a question. It’s a fact that is known from her own experience. 

“I have nothing left when it’s quiet,” Ingrid says, feeling helplessness well up in her chest and in her throat, pushing down the lies she would normally tell people. 

Something in her breaks and she crumples against her friend. Dorothea drops her hands to catch her by the arm and the face as she tucks Ingrid’s face against her shoulder. They sink slowly to the old wooden floors together and Ingrid leans into the comforting touch like it’s a lifeline. She doesn’t remember the last time that someone held her like this. 

Dorothea doesn’t ask her to say anything else as she carefully combs her fingers through Ingrid’s hair which is choppily cut and a little bit tangled, but she doesn’t say anything more either. She hums quietly, a gentle buzz in the centre of her chest and in her throat, and Ingrid’s shoulders shake as she finally cries. 

Her eyes burn with all the emotions that have been building up since the war ended and all the loneliness she has been feeling finally catches up to her. The tears are hot as they roll down over her cheeks and each breath is a choked sob and a gasp for air. The room feels too cold and too hot and too dark and too bright. 

“I’m so alone, Dorothea,” she whimpers as her tears fall, wetting the fair skin of her friend’s shoulders and neck. 

“You don’t have to be alone, Ingrid,” Dorothea whispers. 

Ingrid tightens her grip on her friend and takes a shaky breath, pressing her forehead to Dorothea’s shoulder. She takes a few bracing breaths before she leans away, keeping her arms loosely wrapped around her friend. 

She shakes her head. “I’m so tired of fighting and losing. I thought rebuilding would be better, more productive, but it’s so empty here. These people were trodden over for more than five years, but nobody here knows what it’s like to murder people who had once been your own kinsmen.”

“You’re allowed to rest, Ingrid,” Dorothea says. “You’ve done so much in such a short time here. Everyone would understand and support it.”

Ingrid laughs to herself, wiping at her eyes and drawing away. “I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts. The work helps with that.” A particularly bitter laugh wells in her chest and she closes her eyes, biting her tongue until it stings and she tastes blood. “I gave Felix and Dimitri such a hard time about working themselves to the bone. What would they say to me now?”

“They’d be proud,” Dorothea tries, but Ingrid shakes her head. 

“They’d be ashamed.”

“Please, Ingrid, you have to let me in.”

Ingrid opens her eyes and the sadness in Dorothea’s eyes is enough to lower the last of her guard and her shoulders slump as the exhaustion that keeps trying to cripple her finally takes hold. 

“I killed them. Maybe it wasn’t my lance, but it felt like it. And Sylvain, that was me.”

Dorothea doesn’t say anything because there’s nothing to be said, so Ingrid looks down, studying the grains in the worn wooden floorboards of the house. 

“I think I loved him,” Ingrid continues. “I think I loved him and I killed him like it was nothing.”

Dorothea reaches out and takes her hands. Her lips are cool when she presses them to the back of one hand and then the other. Ingrid watches through teary eyes as Dorothea cups Ingrid’s hands like she’s trying to keep them warm. It almost works. 

The knot in her chest loosens a little and she doesn’t look away when Dorothea smiles at her. It’s a sad smile, one that tells Ingrid she hasn’t forgotten the horrors of the war yet either. 

“You don’t have to be alone anymore,” Dorothea says and, for the first time since the war ended, warmth wells in Ingrid’s chest and it’s not projected or forced: it’s real. 

“Okay.”

* * *

Dorothea stays the winter and in the early spring, they ride to Varley together and they visit Bernadetta and Ingrid lets herself make some new memories. She doesn’t let go of the old ones either, and Dorothea smiles when Ingrid commissions Bernadetta to paint her a series of small, simple portraits to go up in the main hall in Galatea manor. 

She hangs Sylvain in the middle, with Felix and Dimitri on either side of him. Dedue goes next to Dimitri and then Ashe on the end, closest to her room and the last few tales of chivalry that she has kept for herself. Annette goes next to Felix, sandwiching her grumpy friend between his two favourite redheads, and then Mercedes goes on Annette’s other side. 

Then she goes back to work. Galatea isn’t finished yet, so she can’t rest yet. 


End file.
